Get Fit or Die Tryin' : Apollo Creed vs Mitch Buchannon

Ever since I was able to fill in a bra with something else than round vegetables or socks, I knew that something was wrong with me.

Okay, so Mother Nature did not bless me with Barbie's Silicon Valley but then I got given something that would make this bimbo lose her permanently-etched self satisfied grin : real mammaries with proper nips as opposed to curved plastic breast cockpits.

No, the problem was that my teenage years were governed by Baywatch. And, funnily enough , I was starting to look like Mitch Buchannon rather than C.J. Parker.

Oh, the acne spots I created when I angrily tried to deforest the carpet growing on my legs. And the tantrums I threw when I was taught that the saddlebags on those legs were not just a temporary predicament linked to the transition to fully fledged member of the Venus community.

Indeed, now a senior member of the Tampax sisterhood, I am still carrying those saddlebags.However, in a bid to not push straight males into batting for the other team when showing up on a beach soon, I have decided to take drastic action against it : I have joined a local sweat shop.

An Occidental one by the way. Not one of the fancy ones where you get paid to sweat.

Nope, I joined one where it costs to sweat.

Ah the gym. The only place where I can turn up looking like Death after a long day at work. With no make up, old jogging bottoms to cover the legs and an 80's tshirt on top, I feel invincible - and by that I mean invisible - not like Superman and his ridiculous glasses camouflage. I do not look like shadow of myself - but rather like a draft of myself drawn by a Daltonian sufferer.

Or so I thought. You see I always thought the gym was full of self centered people, looking to deal with their own asses . But it turns out that I was wrong, as some people actually turn up there to check on other peoples asses.

YES GYM WEIRDOS I AM TALKING ABOUT YOU. You:

1) Pervy meatheads who grunt like they are about to let an orgasmic one rip.
2) Bimbomen who stare at themselves in the mirror then stare at you to invite you to their auto-erotic oggling.
3) Competition freaks who check on YOUR treadmill settings to evaluate how they can beat you at the hamster run whilst trying not to fall off the treadmill because they cant actually do it.
4) Smelly chicks who reak of a mixture of perfume and sweat and check out your ratio of cellulite per meter square of skin.
5) Bored old men who sit on an exercise machine for 15 minutes without doing anything but looking so concentrated that you'd think they are exercising with their forehead.

Rocky Balboa, I blame you and your silly theme song for all these numpties.

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the cream of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all in the eye of the tiger